


Blades and Ropes

by Darkarashi



Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, F/M, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, what do you mean this isn't how it happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 14:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11693415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkarashi/pseuds/Darkarashi
Summary: Aislinn Cousland has been fighting for this moment. Every action, every choice, every moment from the last one she had seen her parents alive down in the kitchen basement has been building to the Landsmeet. Anora, Alistair, and the political machinations within - all of it was coming to a head. Her life's work, her rank, her life itself - all have been stripped from her by pieces.All she has left to herself is a lover who once tried to kill her. And despite the politics and the infighting, nothing was going to tear them apart. Nothing. Not ever.





	Blades and Ropes

The Landsmeet had gone to shit. Her ancestral rights to rule had been shoved to the side, Alistair clearly becoming the ‘darling’ of the capricious courts. She was too hard-headed, too much, too well-known and now, coming to them, covered in blood, demanding men and armaments for a battle that she _knew_ would demand they all fight..

Alistair was more palatable. Alistair was to be made King, Alistair was going to take her birthright from her hands with a wide, dopey grin. He beamed as they lavished him with praise, each nobleman and noblewoman making their own cases to the King presumptive.

Aislinn had worked her fucking ass off for this moment. She had gone through hell and back, she had worked so hard, fought so hard, pushed all of her feelings to the side and just fucking _worked_ for it and now she was standing to the side watching all of her work be given over to someone who hadn’t even gone through the most basic of noble training.

Alistair had done nothing to earn the position he was in. This was all of her work.

She bit her tongue and whispered another word under her breath to Alistair, giving him the name and title of the sycophant currently begging attention and praise from him. He would forget by the morning, or by the next time a noblewoman’s daughter came by with her dress jerked down to show off as much cleavage as possible.

She looked at him out of the corner of her eyes, incapable of believing that there had been a time that she had ever even looked upon him with anything approaching appreciation.

He grinned broadly, basking in the glory and praise as Aislinn spoonfed him the information he needed in order to appear the competent leader they would need. This was going to be a great battle, the closest Ferelden would come to war in a long while. And the courtly game of thrones always drew a gaggle of observers.

Thankfully, no Orlesians just yet.

Aislinn did not want to try to get Alistair to speak Orlesian or get him through trying to pronounce all of the many different Orlesian titles without a huge faux pas. How he was going to manage to learn Orlesian, Antivan, and Navarran, not to mention some small amount of Tevene, Aislinn was not certain. He had no gift for language, and despite the charisma that inspired many to fall in line with him, Alistair had always been quick to allow others to make decisions for him.

Anora would take advantage of that, given the chance.

He would be a puppet King. But his marriage to Anora would…be of use.

She saw the way Alistair looked at her when she mentioned the marriage to Anora, and she had been exactingly careful to avoid any prolonged contact with him alone. Throughout everything that had led to this moment, capture and escape, all of this to secure the throne for a Queen who had no more right to the throne than Alistair did – that is, to say, none.

Not as compared to her.

The throne should have been hers, by right. The throne she would be giving away because it would be the only thing that would stop a civil war from breaking out throughout all of Ferelden.

The thought twisted her stomach.

She swallowed her bile down and guided Alistair through yet another interaction with another nobleman.

It was killing her slowly, but no one else in the party knew the intricacies of Ferelden politics, and no one else could help Alistair and soothe the ruffled feathers of courtly peacocks. She was burning up, full of fury, but she had been trained in this game since a young age. She knew how the game was played, and she was not a Cousland for nothing.

Few spoke to her. She had been all but disowned by the high court and all its intricacies. She, with her short hair and her battle-worn visage, she, with the tested armor, the embattled blade, she was not the vision of grace and poise that the court themselves wanted. Had she been, perhaps they would have supported her.

But Loghain hated her family. And Anora and her had never gotten along. Old blood and new blood rarely did.

Alistair laughed at one of the propositioning jokes a younger lesser noblewoman made about her being a bedwarmer or some sort. His laugh was a nervous one, and it was only years of courtly training that kept her from making some sort of face at that.

It was a long day leading to the Landsmeet proper. A long day of minding her tongue, playing nice, smiling and laughing along to the same insipid jokes Alistair had taken to making in their entire journey as a way to encourage others to start to enjoy him.

He was going to be King. Whether or not they all thought it. Whether or not they thought it appropriate, regardless of anything else the Court could ever want, Aislinn was going to see to it that Alistair sat the throne.

She was doing this because it was the only way to be done. It, like so many other things that she had had to do since her family had died in their keep at Highever, made her stomach turn. It had to be done. All of this had to be done. Every sacrifice she had made, every detestable bargain she had made, every forbidden piece of knowledge she had stolen, all of it, she hid behind a stony veneer.

She knew the game. Aislin was better at playing it than anyone in attendance.

* * *

That night, she stood in her small room, polishing her armor and honing her blade. Zevran had wisely chosen to melt into the background, hovering in the shadows. She missed his presence in her night-time. He and she had shared a tent more often than not the past few months. He had been her constant companion. She wore his earring, he wore her bandana around his wrist.

She didn’t know how to fully describe her feelings for Zevran. She didn’t have the time to think about her feelings for him. Not in that moment, not really.

Aislinn just missed him.

Almost as if summoned, a knocking came on her door. She did not want to sound overeager, did not want to give voice to the upwelling of feelings in her chest, but she was still quick to welcome the person into the room.

To her surprise, Alistair entered the room, shutting the door behind him. He looked at her from under lowered lashes, and Aislinn did her best to keep her face neutral.

“Ash…I wanted to talk.”

“We have been talking all day, Alistair,” she said quietly, polishing the blade in her hand carefully.

“No, I wanted to talk to you, Ash. About…tomorrow.”

“The landsmeet? We’ve been over what you should expect. I will come as your guide, as I have been doing for-”

“Am I truly going to have to marry Anora?” he asked, interrupting her, speaking to the floor and blushing.

“…That was our agreement, Alistair. You are going to be King. That, or Anora will rule alone. And I don’t trust the get of Loghain Mac Tir on the throne alone. With Cailan, she at least had to pay homage to the idea that she was not Queen Regnant. She has no claim to the throne, save for the one her Father bought her with your father’s memory and your brother’s bed.”

She put her sword down, with the intent to return to its care as soon as this conversation was over. Multiple iterations of this conversation had been had already. Alistair would be fine with it, then change his mind, suddenly taken by some manner of second-guessing or another and come back, asking her opinion.

He was not ready to be King.

That throne should be hers.

“Yes but…you have a stronger claim to the throne than she does. Your family is second to my father’s family, your bloodlines should, by right, rule. Why do I have to marry Anora?”

Aislinn’s heart stopped.

“Alistair. Who told you that.”

“I was talking to one of the Arlessas and she said-“

“I do not have the support Anora has, nor do I have the name you have. By law, I should be able to sit that throne by myself. But it would cause too much strife if I did. You are not a recognized bastard, but you have the right pedigree for them to think that their world hasn’t been upended. Anora expects the throne, and having her still sit it gathers in those who are not yet convinced of your worth. Your marriage to her will secure the throne and leave a majority of the nobles on your side.”

He blinked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

“You could rule alone?”

She frowned.

“You were not suggesting I rule alone?”

“No…I thought I could marry you instead of Anora.”

“ _What_.”

Her word came out acerbic, biting. All at once, unwanted images of their almost-there romance flooded into her mind. Hesitant touches, half-there smiles, and careful sorts of flirtations all that had come crashing down as soon as things got hard, and decisions needed to be made. Alistair had pulled away from her as she had continued to assert her command over the group.

It wasn’t her fault. Alistair wasn’t fit to lead. Not that group, especially. Between Morrigan’s abrasiveness, Leliana’s soft spoken bardic temperament, Zevran being…Zevran, Sten’s Qunari affect, Shale’s whole rock-golem thing, and Oghren being a drunk outcast and all that entailed, the leader of the group fell to her.

It didn’t hurt that they trusted her and she knew the intricacies of some of the laws that others did not know of. She had been trained. Alistair had not been.

“Well..well, Ash, I mean, I thought we…if I married you, then I could trust that decisions you made would be the best for Ferelden and I could learn…and I know you, and I don’t know Anora at all. So if you could be Queen with me, I could rule as King and we could…be together?”

She stared at him.

Zevran’s earring hung, a heavy and familiar weight, off of her left ear lobe. Beneath the collar of her tunic she bore half a dozen marks in the shape of his mouth, and the start of a tattoo on her hip done in his hand.

Zevran had helped her up out of a dozen battles, bandaged wounds with graceful fingers and gentle hands, held her through dark, disturbing nightmares, and not once, not ever once, made her feel like she was something to be won over.

The laugh that came up out of her chest surprised her, and hurt Alistair to the core. If it had only been a short laugh, that would have been one thing, but Aislinn quickly lost her ability to stop. The laugh encompassed the exhaustion, the stress – everything she had been holding back all coming to a head in a marriage proposal to grant her back something that was hers by right.

“No, Maker, _no_ , Alistair. I’m not marrying you,” she said, finally, once the laughter died out. “I’m not going to be Queen just to make your life easier. You will marry Anora if you wish to marry a noblewoman. Or you can marry any of the many others who will undoubtedly want to bear the new King a son or daughter. You have your choice.”

“What if I want you?” he said quietly, his voice breaking.

“Pick someone else.”

He looked wounded, like she had hurt him out of nowhere, for no reason.

“Ash, after everything we’ve been through – everything you lost, I thought-”

“Alistair, don’t talk to me about what I’ve _lost_. You have no idea what…” she took a deep breath, metering her words. “No. Alistair. I’m not marrying you. You should marry Anora. Or someone else. Not me.”

There was a moment of silence between them. Alistair opened his mouth to say something else, and Aislinn held up a hand to stop him.

“You should go, Alistair. Tomorrow is going to be stressful. Put this all out of your mind. It will do nothing for you. The decision has been made. You want to be King? Get used to this. You don’t belong to yourself, but to the men and women of your country.”

“I can’t have anything for myself?”

She laughed again, shaking her head, and reaching back for her sword. This conversation would go nowhere fruitful. Alistair wanted a conversation, and he was pigheaded enough to demand one.

“You are going to sacrifice everything for your country and the best you can hope for is that some of them will remember you well. You will die and bleed and give everything for people who will still spit on your name in taverns. You will make laws that the people hate and absolve laws that people hate and they will still hate you. You will fight for even the barest moment of peace, and that moment will be carefully orchestrated by people who still want something from you. This is not an _easy_ job, Alistair. This job is going to _kill_ you.”

He opened his mouth to say something more, and she held a hand up to stop him. Aislinn wasn’t done yet.

“Your children, should you and Anora beat the odds and have a child – and it is trueborn - are going to be targets for assassinations from the moment they leave her womb. Their friends will look to gain something for their friendship, and if you shelter them, they will never know the rigors of their country. You will have to learn laws and legal codes that bind this nation together, and even then you will not be prepared for the arguments that are presented to you. The noblemen are worse than the peasantry, but everything you do will be to serve the peasantry by convincing the nobles that what you are doing is going to line their pockets with profit.”

She took a breath.

“So no. Nothing for yourself. Not ever. Not a single breath. Once that crown touches your brow, you are no one. Nothing but a vessel for your nation. Nothing but a face to sit the throne. Your power is overwhelming and underwhelming all at once. You are nothing without the crown, and the crown is a heavy weight to bear. You are taking a responsibility others train their entire lives for with no further training than a few months battling the blight and an accident of birth. I don’t envy you in the slightest, Alistair. But…” Aislinn took a deep breath, calming herself as best she could. “King you will be, Alistair. Regardless. And Anora will be your Queen, or another will be your Queen. But it will not be me.”

He had nothing else to say to her, and with a frown that looked like it would not leave his face for a long while, he left her room. The door closed behind him, and Aislinn was alone.

She exhaled, long and slow, and then went back to tending to her armor and sword. Tomorrow would try her in more ways than one.

* * *

Aislinn, standing in the fullest and finest armor the entirety of their group could scrounge together in time for the meeting, was already frustrated. She had done what she could to clean up her hair, trying to trim it evenly after so many months of cutting it short with a dagger blade. Not even Zevran could keep her hair looking good, and there had been no time to try and find some manner of barber to fix what had been done.

But she was dealing with the conniving of a dozen nobles who had all but said they had agreed to what she and Alistair had needed of them. Things changed within moments for the noble minds, and she had been making point and counterpoint trying to convince all gathered that what _she_ suggested was best. Loghain Mac Tir was a problem, an instigator, forcing arguments to take seven times as long as they should. It was frustrating. It ground on her every nerve to be made to play noble-nice with the man responsible for her family’s slaughter.

He knew it, too, if the sharp-toothed grin he sent her way after every one of his comments were any indication.

Aislinn worked to keep herself calm, arguing point after point to make sure that by the time the vote was called, Loghain would have no recourse to deny that everything was done appropriately. The throne would be sat by Alistair, and Anora would be at his side. It was more than anyone like Loghain should have any hope for.

Finally, the vote was called, and finally the nobles gave voice to the decision they should have come to hours before.

Alistair would be king, Anora would be queen.

She let out a breath she had been holding for hours, her shoulders rolling forward just a bit as she relaxed. It was done. Her birthright taken, her battle over. It was time to prepare for a battle that would more than likely end in the death of hundreds of men and women. She slowly turned from the meeting, prepared to give Alistair the last few words of comfort she could think of before he was to be whisked away to a life of Nobility.

But Loghain opened his mouth – challenging Alistair’s claim, the decision of all the nobles and declared everyone traitors.

Silence reined for but a moment before the entire room devolved into chaos. Swords were drawn, men advanced, and battle lines were drawn. Men loyal to Loghain stepped up, clearly prepared to draw blood in defense of their erstwhile ruler.

Those men that had been vehement supporters of her from the beginning stepped in front of her, their own blades bared to the light.

For a moment, Maker save her, for a moment, she almost let it continue. She knew Zevran hovered in the shadows, ready to strike if she only gave the word. Aislinn bit her tongue, reached for that place of implacable calm her Mother had insisted she cultivate.

“Stop.”

Her voice was strong and sharp, the same one she had used to stop the fight when she had spared Zevran’s life. She saw a brief flash of knives in the shadows and knew her assassin had taken notice. She had startled him.

The clamor for battle stopped. All eyes were back on her, all attention with her.

“We are not going to brawl in this hallowed hall like common men. We are nobility, meant to be exemplar of the best of men and women. If we are supposed to have this duty, we must be worthy of it at all times.”

Loghain sneered at her.

“Then how, pray tell, are we to settle this?” one of the Arls who had fought tooth and nail against her every word demanded.

The rage she had kept so carefully wrapped up in her chest burned as bright as Andraste’s pyre as she turned to look Loghain dead in the eye.

“Teryn Loghain Mac Tir, I challenge you to a duel to determine the proper leadership of this country. I champion Alistair Theirin, rightful King of Ferelden, as sworn by his peerage.”

“It is you or I these men will follow, so let us fight for it. Prepare yourself, Teryna Aislinn Cousland.”

Her teeth pulled back in a vicious sneer.

“And you, yourself.”

* * *

Alistair had crowded her as soon as she had stepped away to make her preparations, a dozen words falling out of his mouth all at once.

Aislinn called for Zevran, asked for her bags to be brought out here. She stripped out of the armor she had been wearing, her fingers tearing the weak buckles and ornate pieces. She had been trained, she had prepared, and she was her Mother’s daughter. Her father may have been the one to grant her family their name, but it had been the women of her line that had always been where power had been drawn from.

One of her kinsman, a lesser house, a Bann under her House’s flag attended to her immediately, his voice a stunned whispered “ _Yes, Teryna_.”

She shed her armored layers, waiting for her bag to be brought to her. Alistair kept talking, even as she asked for woad to be brought to her. Aislinn ignored him. She had more important things to do. Like finishing her revenge. Howe was dead. Loghain was the final piece of her vengeance. She was, despite everything else, hungry for this fight now that the option for it had fallen in her lap.

A brass mirror was brought alongside the woad, and Aislinn carefully dipped her fingers in the paint. She took a deep breath, and began painting the careful designs of her family’s marks across her skin, ending with a long drag of three fingers down her throat, ending at her collarbones. The markings were unlike any her friends here had seen her wear, but she had never had the opportunity to wear her woad in battles against the darkspawn.

It was more suited to this sort of battle, anyway.

Her bag came, Alistair still talked, and she carefully knelt to take the weapon she had held for the entire journey for this moment. Her mother’s sword had not gotten to taste Howe’s blood, but it would have Loghain’s.

She was careful to dress herself slowly in her preferred armor. Not as flashy, not as pretty-looking, nothing so good as what she had worn before this moment, but it was functional in a way that the other had not been. She braided her ash-blonde hair out of her eyes in the style Zevran had taught her. He helped her, even, smoothing woad into the hair as she smeared it across her braids.

She read worry in the way Zevran checked the straps of her armor for her, running his fingers over exposed edges, looking for anything that would give Loghain an edge in battle and fixing it before he could use it against her.

“The sword-breaker, please, Zev,” she said softly.

He nodded and found the oddly stylized dagger she asked for. Unlike Alistair and Sten, she did not use her warrior proficiency with a sword and shield, or a two handed heavy weapon. She preferred a more balanced approach. Usually a dagger in one hand, and a sword in the other, but after their trip to Arl Eamon’s estate and saving his son, she had had her preferred off-hand weapon made especial for her. A swordbreaker dagger.

She had been trained in how to use it by her mother. She would do due homage to her family in their memory.

* * *

Prepared for battle, Aislinn stood ready, her shoulders relaxed and loose, and her every nerve singing already. A circle had been drawn on the ground, and shieldbearers stood, each bearing a sigil of the Bann or Arldom they represented, ready to keep the combatants within the bounds until one of them yielded…or died.

Aislinn was ready. This was not the most terrifying thing she had done in the past week.

Loghain stepped up. Hero of Ferelden, all of those things, great warrior bold and brave, someone that so many gathered knew as someone responsible for a great many amazing feats of bravery and heroism. And Aislinn…

Ohhh, Aislinn was going to make him bleed for it.

The shout went up for the battle to begin, and Aislinn’s feet had never moved in a more certain pattern. Their swords met, his shield came up and he readied all his muscles for a huge shoving strike against her, but she was already gone, spinning like a Navarran dervish out of his path. She did not allow any smile of victory grace her lips, but prepared again for his strikes.

Their battle raged. Neither seemed to have any distinct advantage or disadvantage, and the fight carried on.

“You fight well for a Cousland,” Loghain said, his breath coming in short pants.

Her response was a tight grin.

His next strike, she evaded with more grace and poise than she had displayed previously, and her blade flashed quickly, slicing up and in. She withdrew it and it was painted red with his blood.

His sword clattered to the floor, his fingers suddenly nerveless and incapable of grasping. He stared at her, eyes wide.

“Wynne, fix him.”

Healer’s light alit on his body, and she watched him form a fist again. Loghain grabbed his sword and charged her. She moved around him easily, and again, her sword darted in and out, piercing flesh with abandon.

Loghain’s legs went out from underneath him, the big muscle incapable of supporting his weight, and his eyes wide. Again, he stared up at her, and her teeth were bared in a tight snarl. She circled him, her blade glittering red. The hunger and fury roared in her chest, and Aislinn barely managed to hold it back. She needed to maintain control. She was not a berserker. She was fighting for Alistair’s throne.

And her own vengeance.

But his throne too.

“I have waited so long for this, Loghain. I want to savor it. Wynne, again,” Aislinn said. She couldn’t let it go. Not yet. Not goddamn yet.

He stood, healing again, his sword and shield back in his hand. He looked at her, something close to apprehension beginning to dawn in his expression. She was trying not to enjoy it, trying not to let it get to her, but Maker save her or damn her, it did not matter. Loghain was going to _bleed_ for what he had done. For everything she had lost, for everything she should have had, everything that should have been done  and had not been.

Again, she disarmed him, his blood wetting her blade and splashing across her armor. She outmatched him, it was clear. Youth and fresh battle experience won easily over a man who had rested too long on his laurels. Loghain had been great, once. Once, he had been hero and savior, once he had been trusted among all others, once he would have been a true challenge for Aislinn.

But those days were gone.

He was not who he had once been.

His star was failing. Hers was not. Her star was in her chest still.

She was rage, and burning up inside with it all. She called for Wynne again, despite the hiss that ran through the crowd at her cavalier abuse of a mage’s healing ability. It didn’t matter to her that they judged her, it only mattered that Wynne nodded and healed Loghain, despite the sudden protestations of some of the nobility, and the growing unease in the air.

Their bought and sold loyalty was challenged again. Loghain was not giving his best, but Aislinn was behaving brutally, not taking the final blow, and not giving Loghain leave enough to yield with honor. There was no clear victor. There was only blood on the blade and floor and armor.

One last time, brutally, she disarmed him, evading his every attack and slamming him to the ground without his shield. Loghain stumbled to his feet, swinging wildly with his blade. The swordbreaker dagger came up, catching his sword in the prongs of the dagger. With a wrench, she twisted and _shoved_ , her dagger exploiting a blade’s weakness, and Loghain’s blade shattered.

 With his broken sword hanging limply from his fingers, Loghain stared up at her, not quite understanding. His blade was an ancestral one just like the one she was using. Or it had been, but now it was in pieces.

“My blade is red. Your grip is loose,” she said flatly, lifting her own sword to rest it on his shoulder, the blade against his neck. “Alistair and Anora have begged clemency for your life before this. Anora would have you join the Grey Wardens, Alistair would have you rot in jail. Both are fair punishments for what you have brought upon Ferelden with your need for war and glory.”

She watched as Loghain’s fear gave back into a cocksure grin. He was not going to die. She was going to keep him around, because who would kill the Queen’s father against her own wishes?

“The Joining may kill you, and prison would waste you away. You would never again be the same, with either of those. It would be a fitting punishment for a man like you.”

He grinned at her.

“Wynne, one last time, please,” Aislinn said softly, her blade slowly retracting.

A sigh went through the crowd from Loghain’s supporters…and people who did not want to see such a revered hero die. Not in a duel, not against a woman, not even a woman like Aislinn Cousland, recognized Teryna of Highever. His wounds healed, and while he was not going to get that sword repaired, he was alive and free to do as he willed. He moved to stand.

The flat of Aislinn’s blade came down sharply on his shoulder and she stared him down, her face darkening. His knees dropped back to the ground and he tilted his head away from the blade’s edge. He stared at her, brows furrowing.

“But I would have words with you first, Loghain. You, who commanded Arl Howe’s men to murder my family, you, who made it such that I was an orphan, that I would need to bear my family’s sword, need to join the Grey Wardens to escape your men’s wrath. I would have you know something of my pain.”

She took a deep breath, gathering herself. She let the rage, the deep _feeling_ and _hunger_ of the Grey Wardens fill her up inside. She could maim him and refuse him healing. She could scar him and let him know her displeasure every time he looked in a mirror for the rest of his life.

“But you can’t ever know what it felt like. What it still feels like. But I know what will make me feel better.”

Her blade was quick, and she swung with all the significant force she had in her.

Loghain’s head rolled across the floor, and his body slumped to the other side. Amidst the shocked gasps of the gathered people, and the wailing of Anora, Aislinn knelt down, and dipped her fingers in Loghain’s blood.

She smeared the blood across her mouth, down her lips and then took a step back and away. She was not horrified by what she had done, she knew what was going to happen from the moment that Loghain stepped into the arena with her. Slowly, she stepped away, staring down at the growing pool of blood. Relief was a heavy burden for a heart so used to pain.

Aislinn gathered herself, and slowly turned back to where Alistair stood.

“King Alistair, let me be the first of your Teryns to offer you my loyalty. Highever stands with the King, and swears to defend you and your interests from henceforth on.”

Anora was inconsolable, and Alistair just stared at her. She offered a half-bow to the new King, took a deep breath, and left.

* * *

She barely had made it into her room, sword still bare, mind still hazy, when a hand came up and grabbed her by the wrist. Startled, she cried out, but warm lips that tasted like Brandy caught hers.

“ _Zevra-an_ ,” she moaned in recognition, letting him take her sword from her hand, and her dagger clattered to the floor.

He didn’t respond, gently propping the sword up against the door, and checking its lock. His mouth never left hers, working over her lips with slow, deliberate pace. His tongue flattened against her chin, cleaning away the trace of Loghain’s blood that remained there. Hands moved to her armor next, carefully peeling away all of her layers, baring her skin to him.

She let his hands touch all of her most vulnerable places, his fingers skimming her ribs, digging in over her heart, even as his mouth worked sin against hers.

Maker, no one else in all of Thedas kissed like Zevran did. He kissed her like she was fire, like she was holy and precious and wonderful, and on top of that, he kissed her like he wanted to consume her, to possess her, to –

He moaned into her mouth, lowly and loudly, clawing down her sides. Aislinn gasped, and lifted her hand from where he had pressed it, trying to grab him back.

He caught her wrist and held it against the wall.

“No, no, you stay there, you stay right like this, I’m going to treat you to something _spectacular_.”

She shivered, and tensed. Aislinn trusted Zevran with every iota of her being…but she had just been in a fight and she wasn’t necessarily in the mood for playing some games. She wanted _more_.

Zevran read her movements easily, and snarled at her. His mouth dropped down and his teeth found her throat. He bit hard, until she was whining and writhing under him. Her hands came up, pushing on his chest and shoulder, but Zevran was unmoved.

Her surprise gave over quickly to battle-blood, and she clawed at him until he pulled away just far enough for her to make a counterattack. Even with half of her clothes on the floor and her body aching from the fight, she was not going to take this so easily. She forced herself forward, grabbing at him, digging her fingers into his hips, snarling her legs with his.

Had it been anyone but Zevran, perhaps she would have made a more impressive showing of her skills. But Zevran, clever Zevran was a step ahead of her, and despite his surprised grunt of pain, managed to avoid being tripped.

Aislinn growled at him as he delicately darted out of her way, using his damnable assassin tricks on her to get behind her and twist her arm up behind her back.

Not so hard that she actually needed to relax to break it, but enough to smart and strain the already taxed muscle. She yelped, and kicked at his feet, trying to get him off of her. Zevran held her still, chuckling against her neck. He kissed her tenderly, peppering her skin with a dozen gentle kisses, even as he tightened his grip on her arm.

“None of that, amore,” he sighed into her skin, mouthing her ear. “I’m in charge right now.”

As much as Aislinn was usually fine with these games, trading dominance back and forth between the two of them, tonight wasn’t the night. She wanted more of a fight, more blood, more of anything else that would make the itching under her skin go away, because now that it was started, she needed something to make it go _away_.

She snapped her teeth at him, arching her back, trying to get enough room to get her arm free so she could turn on her lover and repay him his kindness for ambushing her in her room. But Zevran stuck with her, taking away her avenue of escape. He chuckled drily in her ear, rocking his hips against her ass, grinding his cock against her and purring as she still tried to wriggle away.

“Now, now, play nice, querida. After all that fighting, you’re going to let me take you.”

Aislinn snarled, trying to twist out of his grasp, and when that still didn’t work, she dropped her weight, pulled forward and flipped Zevran over her shoulder. He jumped with the movement, building speed and force. He dragged her down to the ground, catching her weight on his chest and holding her there.

With a mighty twist, he pinned her to the ground and held her _there_ instead. Aislinn tried to push herself up with the one arm available to her, but Zevran swept her arm out from underneath her and held both her wrists together behind her back.

She screamed against the wood of the floor, struggling in vain. Zevran’s grip did not falter, and it did not even seem as if he was struggling that much to keep her in place. His strong legs caged her hips, and no matter how she twisted or turned, he kept with her, his weight settling

“Querida, please, I would hate to have to tie you up to keep you still.”

A frisson of heat raced up her spine and she tensed, again, under his grip.

“Oh, would you _like_ that? I assure you, I am quite the favored hand with the ropes.”

“Fuck _off_ , Zevran, this isn’t the fucking _time_!” she snarled, shaking her shoulders from side to side, to try and get him off of her.

It didn’t matter how the way his thighs pressed against her hips made her grow wet. Nor did it matter how the thought of having him tie her down and dominate her made her mouth go dry. She did not _want_ to submit. Not right now. Maybe another day, but not now.

“I disagree, my Warden. You need someone to take care of you.”

She grunted, wriggling ineffectively against his hold. Zevran leaned down over her, nuzzling into the sweaty back of her neck, his tongue licking a broad stripe across the nape of her neck. She moaned despite herself, tilting her head down so he could have better access to her neck. He chuckled lowly, tightening his grip on her wrists and pulling her wrists a little harder.

“You know you can make me stop at any time, Aislinn,” he whispered.

It was true. They had a watchword, and she knew that if she wanted him to stop, all she had to do was say it, and he would stop immediately.

But as soon as that knowledge started blooming in her mind, she squashed it. As much as she struggled, in the moment, the challenge was a good one. If neither of them used the watchword, the game of dominance could be played.

And Aislinn was not yet certain that she had lost the game.

She nodded, letting him know she had heard him, and then went right back to struggling. Because she _didn’t_ want to give in so easily with this. She wanted to fight and brawl and still work against Zevran’s grasp. But he held her down, with far more ease than she liked to feel. She was an unstoppable force in battle, someone who made the very ground shake, and darkspawn tremble when she took to the field. But Zevran held her down easily.

One of his hands came up to push on the back of her head as he started rutting against her ass. She couldn’t do anything to stop him, and Zevran was not quiet in making the pleasure he derived from the action known.

She could feel his cock, hard and heavy against her, and while she derived no pleasure from it, that didn’t stop Zevran from continuing.

“Mmm, amore, your ass is something of beauty. I should just – _ahhhh­_ – enjoy it, should I not?”

Aislinn arched her back, lifting her hips, trying to get more from her lover than he was currently giving her. Her bare chest was pressed against the floor, and as fine as the wood there was, it was not the most comfortable thing against her skin. Zevran kept the pressure on both her arms and head, but purred at her raised hips and the added friction that afforded him.

“Now, hold still, my darling, my dearest, we have _so much_ to do.”

She did the opposite of that, struggling as soon as she felt his grip slacken, wrenching one arm free and using the sudden leverage to get Zevran off of her, rolling onto her side and doing her best to get as much distance as possible from him. He still had a hand on her other wrist, and used that to maintain control.

He slung a leg over her hips and reached around to grab her throat, keeping her from struggling too much. Zevran chuckled as she struggled with him, keeping her contained almost effortlessly, mouthing at her neck and ear in equal parts until her struggles became squirming. His hand tightened on her throat, and his leg locked her knee out so she couldn’t get any leverage.

Again, his hips rolled against hers, a point of distraction as his lips spread into a smile against her skin.

She wriggled against his grasp, rolling her body in a way that could potentially be misinterpreted as an invitation for him to continue. The hand he put on her throat drifted down her chest, rolling her bared nipples between his fingers, cupping her breasts, and then pinching the soft flesh until she was gasping and pressing her chest against his hand.

He laughed, holding her arm in place behind her back still, trailing his fingers down her chest. She grabbed for his hand, trying to get his hand off of her, to try and get herself free, but Zevran’s fingers were more deft than hers, and he held her hand in place. His hips did not stop their movement against hers, and with careful, intense focus, he pulled both their hands down her body, over her flexing stomach, down beneath the hem of her barely-on trousers.

She gasped, tensing up as his fingers brushed her pearl, even as his laugh against her neck grew louder.

“Now. Be _still_ , amore mia.”

Aislinn did the exact opposite of that, struggling against him, rolling her body to the rhythm Zevran dictated with every slow press and drag of his fingers against her already-dripping pearl. She grabbed his wrist, trying to control the pace of her pleasure. She felt like her body was too big for her skin, like everything was tight and coiled up in her chest.

But Zevran moved his hand away, catching hers again and pulling it back so he could grab both her wrists in one hand. None too gently, he turned her back onto her stomach and rested his weight against her.

She could only lay and listen as Zevran grabbed something and pulled it forward. It wasn’t until she felt rope loop around her wrists that she realized Zevran had been very serious about tying her up. He had never done that before, despite the constant teasing of it, and to suddenly feel a knot settle between her wrists had a knot start in her throat.

“Did you think I was making a joke, my dear?” he growled against her neck, looping rope around her elbows and tightening, drawing her wrists apart, binding them to her elbows.

Aislinn pulled on the binding as soon as his hands left her, and was frustrated, but not surprised to feel no give at all in the ropes. Zevran slowly pulled her to her knees, the end of the rope still in his hand. She snapped at his hand when he reached for her face. He laughed, grabbed her chin, and smoothed her hair out of her eyes. Aislinn huffed at him, relaxing as he gently, gently, pet her neck and face. She turned away, grumbling something under her breath, even as Zevran wrapped the ropes further around her.

He was exceptionally gentle, kissing her as he tied knots in intricate patterns around her. Aislinn allowed it, relaxing into his touch. She didn’t want to admit it aloud, but this was thrilling. Zevran didn’t need her to tell him that she liked it. He could tell in the way she leaned into his every touch, her eyes fluttering closed when he tugged on a lock of her hair.

Zevran was careful to move her so that he could tie his knots without issue.

When she was trussed to his liking, Zevran took a step back to regard his work. Aislinn  Cousland, Teyrna of Highever was kneeling, her legs tied , ankle to thigh so she could not rise, with a artful pattern of rope down her chest to draw attention to her breasts, and the delightful bruises he had left there the night before. She looked a treat, skin flush, eyes wide, woad and blood smeared across her face and down her throat.

A Warden trussed up and in a room lit only by candles.

 _Maker_ , he had seen women and men wearing nothing more than perfumes and silk scarves, arched and writhing against each other – he’d been in the _middle_ of such delectable feasts of sight and smell, and still, none of that compared to the absolute delectability of seeing Aislinn like this. She still had her pants on, he had tied the knots over what clothing she still wore, though it was nothing more than underclothes to keep her armor from chafing.

She stared up at him, eyes bright and challenging, despite her inability to move in any real way.

No one else had seen her like this, he was certain.

“Are you happy just staring, Zev?” Aislinn said breathlessly, grinning up at him.

“For…now, amore, yes.”

She laughed, her chest bouncing with the movement. Zevran did not even try to avoid staring at her breasts. He smiled, and with the selfsame swagger that he had approached her tent with the first night they had slept together in camp, Zevran took a step away from her, his fingers working on the laces of his trousers. Aislinn watched him hungrily, her eyes burning.

Slowly, he taunted her, peeling his leather trousers away, going so far as to give her a saucy little wink when she rolled her eyes at him.

“Of course you’re not wearing smalls,” Aislinn said with a laugh, testing the strength of the rope that bound her.

Zevran tutted at her, pulling his cock free of his trousers and lazily pumping a hand over it as he watched her struggle to get free. When the knots only tightened as she moved, Aislinn, eventually, gave up, bound tighter than she had been at the start. The rope bit into her skin, forcing her to sit up straight, legs parted, arms locked behind her harder than ever.

It was then that Zevran made his approach, dragging a chair behind him, cock jutting proudly out from his hips. He ran his fingers across her chin, his thumb skipping over her lips, dragging her lower lip down. Aislinn smiled at him, leaning forward just far enough to suck the pad of his thumb into her mouth, her tongue flattening against it. She suckled his thumb, using the little amounts of movement she had to tease him as best she could.

Zevran collapsed down into the chair, tugging her forward. He shivered, carefully hooking his thumb behind her teeth and pulling her forward, until her face was pressed up against his thigh. Slowly, he pulled his thumb out of her mouth, and nudged her over towards his cock.

Aislinn hummed and graciously took Zevran’s cock into her mouth. He put a hand on the back of her head, slouched down in the chair and let her go to work.

She slowly started moving her head, keeping to a slow and smooth rhythm.

Over her, Zevran groaned, long and low, carding his fingers through her hair. He didn’t try and push her head further down, or guide her in any way, he just liked having his hand in her hair. Between her lips and tongue and the steady movements Aislinn made and the visual of her being trussed up for him, by him, and with gritted teeth he dropped his head to rest against the back of the chair and stare down at her.

He watched her hungrily, drowning in the feel of her tongue flicking against the head of his cock, the way her eyes fluttered shut when her nose finally pressed against the base of his shaft, the soft mewling noise she made every time she withdrew.

Zevran made minute movements of his hips, not so much as to force his cock deeper into her throat, but just in enjoyment of the act of having the Warden – Maker the _Warden_ – sucking him off. Save his fucking soul this was better than anything else in the entire world.

Pleasure coiled deep in his gut, and he was hard pressed to keep himself focused on not cumming down her throat. He wanted to keep going like this forever. He wanted to never not feel this, never not be in this moment.

His chest heaved as he tried to hold everything back. The candlelight danced across the sweat that gathered on his skin, and he swallowed down a dozen Antivan words of praise and glory. He called Aislinn amore, purred her name into her hair, mumbled slurred Antivan into his cups when they went out drinking, and he didn’t know how much she knew of Antivan but right now – Maker, right in this moment, he was ready to do anything to keep her where she was. Love her, yes, Maker yes, love her, even if the word got stuck in the back of his throat, there was love there.

And not just because she had his cock in her mouth.

That wasn’t even a consideration, a glorious as the wet heat of her mouth slowly working him over into ecstasy. He sucked air in through his teeth, biting his tongue, tightening his grip on her hair.

Aislinn moaned into the golden curls at the base of his cock, and Zevran’s shoulders jumped. With a curse, he arched up into her mouth, shuddering as he tried to bite back an orgasm. Instead, he satisfied himself with deepening the thrusts he made into her mouth, planting his feet on the floor and slo-owly pushing himself deeper into her mouth.

She sighed when she pulled her head back, her green eyes wide and dark with desire. Zevran looked down at her, biting his lip and watching, utterly transfixed as Aislinn continued. He wanted this forever. And she was so obliging, tied up, covered in woad and the blood of Loghain.

Zevran tried to commit the image to memory, but every time he got close to memorizing it, she would do his _favorite_ thing with her tongue against the crown of his cock, and a full-body shudder would wrack his entirety. His fingers would tighten in her hair, snarling her hair around his hand, and any minute movement made her mewl.

His legs tensed as he tried to hold the sudden pleasure that blistered through him back. He jerked her head off his cock harshly, biting back a sharp curse as the sudden _lack_ of stimulation had his orgasm thunder through him without any recourse to stop it.

He quickly cupped his hand over the head of his cock, catching his seed in the palm of his hand. Aislinn leaned forward to lick the back of his knuckles. He grunted and opened his hand to her questing tongue. The flat of her tongue made quick work of his seed, cleaning his palm and leaving it spit-slick. Zevran’s mind blanked on any and all words in every language he even halfway spoke, and he just stared.

Aislinn grinned at him, licking her lips and slowly leaning away, letting Zevran’s eyes roam down her body. Which they did. With utmost pleasure. Utmost pleasure and absolute worship. He, all at once, found it hard to draw breath, his chest tightening with words more terrifying than any battle he had fought in his entire life.

He meant them. That was the part that was terrifying him. He meant every word that hovered on the back of his tongue and he worked hard against the impulse to lay them bare. It was a terrifying thing to even _think_ those words, and he would rather let Aislinn eat his heart in the middle of the marketplace than ruin this moment with words that he could never, ever take back.

“Your turn, I think,” he gasped out as soon as he could manage words that wouldn’t burn him on the way out.

With the same catlike grace he possessed on the battlefield, Zevran bent down to her level, carefully wrapped his arms around her and lifted her easily.

His frame belied his strength. Aislinn knew that he was easily as strong as any of the other warriors. A lot of his strength came in places Alistair just didn’t have. He was flexible ( _ooh was he ever flexible_ ) and his muscle was not bulky, but lean. He lifted her and she knew the only way she was being dropped was if the world fell out from beneath his feet.

He set her down slowly on the edge of the overly large bed with her hips, and her feet folded underneath her. She only made one quick sound of surprise, leaning back as best she could to keep her balance. The ropes cut harshly against her skin, tightening with enough force to bite in a little deeper.

Zevran chuckled, kneeling down so he could rest her shins on his shoulders, giving her a place to balance her weight. He looked up at her, marveling at how, even with such a simple difference in position, and despite the rope that he knew was holding her in place, and keeping in command of the situation, he was still absolutely willing to do anything to please her. He wanted to spend his entire life at her side.

Had she asked he would have –

 _No_ , he chided himself, reaching for his boot-knife. _This isn’t the time for that. She does not know what Alistair said to you. Keep it to yourself._

Carefully, with a reverence he felt all the way through him, he let the tip of his knife dance across the seam of her trousers, filleting it open with a finesse that got a delicious, beautiful hiss of surprise from Aislinn. He tossed the knife aside, uncaring of where it ended up. Zevran had far more important things to pay attention to at hand.

He pressed his thumbs to either side of the slit he had cut, oh so delicately, over her own natural slit, gently parting both and pressing his mouth hungrily to the feast presented to him.

Aislinn went as taught as Leliana’s favorite bowstring, straining in vain against the ropes he had tied her with, her voice suddenly high and pleading.

Her thighs could come no tighter around his head, not with how the knots lay across her skin, and she could not move in a way to demand more from him. She was at his mercy as much as he had always been at hers.

The _words_ were coming back again, and Zevran dedicated himself to the task of bringing her pleasure instead of indulging them. His tongue, betrayer though it may yet still be, sketched out the letters of the _words_ he denied himself against her pearl, running through every devotion he had ever been taught and giving them all to her.

She chanted his name like it was something holy above him, her voice high and reedy, loud and soft and quiet and hard in equal parts, at different times. He had her at his mercy and his mercy was a cacophony of pleasure and _words_ that he spelled out for her, his fingers digging into the joint of her thigh, cupping her hip, delving into her flower to pull her pleasure out so he could taste it anew.

Zevran could do this for hours.

He did.

He stayed on his knees before the only thing he worshipped in the entire world of Thedas, uncaring of aches, uncaring of anything except the _words_ he could not bring himself to say, not now, perhaps not ever, but he could worship her. He could bring her pleasure. He could remake his entire existence in her image of pleasure, devote himself entirely to that, and even if she left him for her greener pastures, if she abandoned him as soon as this suicide mission was, he had right now.

These moments.

And he could drown in them.

And he did.

He drowned in her. Her taste on his tongue, the way her breath caught in the back of her throat when his nose bumped her pearl just the _slightest_ bit overhard, how her thigh jumped under his palm when his teeth skirted the lips of her folds, the slick that flowed from her most precious of places that dripped from his chin, all of it, he drowned in.

Zevran came up for air only after he feels her muscles go slack, and her voice crack one time too many. He looks at her, eyes dazed, the candle guttering low, and still sees the gleam of her green eyes and her ash-blonde lashes spotted with tears. Her face  bore the tractmarks of a dozen other tears, and while it was not unusual for her to cry during her releases – so much was piled onto her shoulders that the physical and emotional got all tied together – there was a desperation in her gaze that he was not used to.

Slowly, he rose, his hands already loosening the ropes.

He was transfixed by her gaze.

The ropes unraveled, and Zevran pulled them away. Aislinn was slow to move, laying back on the bed, stretching out aching limbs that had, perhaps been bound to long. He helped her out of what remained of her trousers, shed the last of his clothes and climbed into bed with her. They slid under the covers, one of the few times the two of them had ever had such a comfort and when she turned to him, her leg sliding over her hip, her body resting atop his, and took his cock into her, he couldn’t stop the words –

“I love you, Aislinn,” he said, his voice breaking as he realized the words too slow to stop them.

She stilled her slow movements, slowly drawing her body down to rest her chest atop his. Aislinn was a welcome weight atop him, and a familiar one – the tents they had out in the wilds were only so big.

Her lips brushed his, but she said nothing, not then.

Slowly, her hips moved, rocking him deeper into her, rolling her body, grinding atop him. Zevran was not ashamed of how quickly his second orgasm came upon him, and with an almost tired snap of his hips up into her, he sighed his release into her neck. He reached up to wrap his arms around her, but thought better of it.

The words had come and there was no taking them back.

“I love you, Zevran,” she said softly, her voice rough.

She kissed him again, slowly sliding off to his side.

“I have loved you for a long while. I would like to be able to love you for a long while after all of this. Please?”

The note of pleading in her voice, and the way her hands skittered across his chest, tracing out the patterns of his tattoos…Zevran’s heart broke.

“Of course,” he said slowly. And then, all at once: “I love you Aislinn. I love you so much it hurts the stars for how bright it burns in me. I love you, all the way through me. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

She nuzzled in close, flinching as his hand came up and rubbed over one of the raw spots from the ropes had bit into her. Zevran moved his hand slowly away, a quip about seeing what she looked like in the light dying before he could say it. This wasn’t the time. He wanted to know. He needed to know.

“What needs to be done, Zev?”

“The Blight…this business with the crown…Ash, I…you don’t need to…stay. With me. I can be a consort. An illicit lover. I don’t…” he drew a deep breath to calm himself. “I mean to say that…you should be Queen. And Alistair is King now, and he’ll marry Anora but you could step in…I don’t…I don’t want you to resent this for losing that.”

Aislinn reached for his hand, twining her fingers with his, and brought his knuckles up to her mouth to kiss them again.

“I want only to be your Queen, Zevran. You’ve called me that often enough, and it satisfies me more than the crown they will wear ever could.”

His heart swelled in his chest, and he tried not to cry, but only halfway succeeded. The room got misty for all the tears he was holding back. Aislinn kissed his cheek, and curled her naked body against his. In the morning, she would be The Warden, and he, her Assassin. In the morning, they would face the courts they had thrown into turmoil, in the morning they would concern themselves with the Blight again.

In the night – in _this_ night, Zevran Arainai had said the words he had been afraid of, and been given words in return that made his heart sing.

It was enough.

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